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I don't want to be Well Known Quoting Kofla_: Wellknown It is extremely difficult and takes a lot of creativity write good poetry. Congratulations! I too don't know how people do it...especially those who have to overcome the difficulty. I don't know how I do it, either.. How an idea begins the poem...and my mind finishes it. I don't have a clue staring out what's going to end up on the paper..I just start writing. there is absolutely no precision. I can't do precision..It's far too difficult for me. I give up too easily. I build a boat that floats in the air...But the holes in it will sink it in the water. I never build it to sail away.. I don't want to "fix it".. I don't want to own it..Yet i don't want to lose it.. I want to find it.. .I want to share it..but that's not up to me. ...... Anyway MY Muse.. It's a real person who created my fantasy world, She was here.. what seems to be a lifetime ago..I never met her...but she became My Mermaid and My Muse... My Muse On the sandy beaches of my solitude Skies of gray, and stillness of air I search the shore, in pensive mood Only to discover a mermaid there. She came to me on worded wings That lit upon my soul. Revealing things that could be Things that make me whole. She took me to a distant shore A place of "could have been" Her magic kept me mesmerized With dreams she'd come again She departed without a fond adieu Her words painted on my mind I wonder if she ever knew She left her art behind. Now, I walk along the water's edge All the footprints washed away Seeking her magic's knowledge Finding her clues along the way. A sea of glimmering silver and turquoise Blonde seaweed that curls and flows Seashells that make an echoing noise of the precious moment, magic knows. My thoughts, my prayers, my devotion Someday her return to the magic land Til then, I'll hold her hand across an ocean Til then, I'll feel her heartbeat in the sand. |
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WINTER NIGHT I will tell you of my winter night Colors fade to black and white Spring love the hot and bold Now solitary thoughts.. bitter and cold A blanket on a sandy beach Finds itself out of reach Just a comforter and a chair Snuggled up in a dream of there.... Perchance to see another Spring Black and white becomes rainbowing And flowers created just in thought Become perfumed Roses and Love Me Not Looking through the window for it's return Birds unseen, yet the heart does yearn If someday, Spring could come again From a winter's night that never ends
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Moonlight In the still of night He hears the coo of his wanderlust in the moonlight's woo A vision of a moonlit flower Which blossoms in the sky For those who ask why not instead of asking....why? The scent of her sweet perfume As she wears the black night dress Her cascades of hair, her silky touch Provides him a warm caress A simple remembrance to dream that love need not be strewn When the magic stars dance in step All's well, above the moon
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Jimmy: All of the above show a world class talent for creativity. Especially My Muse the very first one which captures the true full powerful essence of belief, inspiration, courage and a strong conviction of unyielding determination to navigate the Journey of Life as one single man. Your description of when starting out and the process involved is exactly dead on target. My poems usually start out with two line ending line rhyming words from a chosen topic and just grow from there in scope and content. Things just come to mind that link and inspire the next connecting lines to fall into place. Some come easy while others present morechallenge. Next you no doubt tweak and improve finding better adjectives and maybe even replace entire stanza lines in the process. Know until today, I failed to see deep into your valued talents for creation. Hats off and by all means, please post more of your accomplished works for all to behold and appreciate. Each faithful believing reader extracts their very own set of values and extracted thoughts which is exactly the way it should be. In closing you have the talents and abilities to PAINT WORDS INTO VISIONS Quoting Wellknown: JIMMY " It is extremely difficult and takes a lot of creativity write good poetry. Congratulations!"
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I absolutely love "The Muse".......I'm going to copy it and hang it beside my easel ....It seems to me that having an occasional visit from such a muse and working towards finding a state of inspiration is much more fulfilling than the ruthless rhymes of popular opinion.
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Jimmy: All of the above show a world class talent for creativity. Especially My Muse the very first one which captures the true full powerful essence of belief, inspiration, courage and a strong conviction of unyielding determination to navigate the Journey of Life as one single man. Your description of when starting out and the process involved is exactly dead on target. My poems usually start out with two line ending line rhyming words from a chosen topic and just grow from there in scope and content. Things just come to mind that link and inspire the next connecting lines to fall into place. Some come easy while others present morechallenge. Next you no doubt tweak and improve finding better adjectives and maybe even replace entire stanza lines in the process. Know until today, I failed to see deep into your valued talents for creation. Hats off and by all means, please post more of your accomplished works for all to behold and appreciate. Each faithful believing reader extracts their very own set of values and extracted thoughts which is exactly the way it should be. In closing you have the talents and abilities to PAINT WORDS INTO VISIONS Quoting Wellknown: JIMMY " It is extremely difficult and takes a lot of creativity write good poetry. Congratulations!" That's the difficulting I give up on.. Too much ass and not enough twerking...Perfection has never been style.. And I tend leave things unfinished. I always thought it's a character flaw not to go the extra mile.. But here's the deal.. every time I have tried it.. I mess it up.. I get too concerned with the perfection.. and I lose my feel for the poem. I'm not buried into what I write..It's importance to me, is because it is fleeting. Like love...Something not to live.. but to remember. I never read poetry or wrote it before. I was 55 yrs old In school i had to memorize a poem.. I hated it. It was William Wordsworth.. the Daffodils. For a teenager that's was painful. But through my life the last Stanza stayed with me..and I have been in search of "Daffodils" When oft and on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood They flash upon my inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude.
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Yes the tweaking... I shake my ass a little bit... and then let it go. That's the difficulting I give up on.. Too much ass and not enough twerking...Perfection has never been style.. And I tend leave things unfinished. I always thought it's a character flaw not to go the extra mile.. But here's the deal.. every time I have tried it.. I mess it up.. I get too concerned with the perfection.. and I lose my feel for the poem. I'm not buried into what I write..It's importance to me, is because it is fleeting. Like love...Something not to live.. but to remember. I never read poetry or wrote it before. I was 55 yrs old In school i had to memorize a poem.. I hated it. It was William Wordsworth.. the Daffodils. For a teenager that's was painful. But through my life the last Stanza stayed with me..and I have been in search of "Daffodils" When oft and on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood They flash upon my inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude. Over and over I would make changes and end ut far worse off then the second and third and forth times around. I don't know about anyone else. but one day I just woke up and things somehow changed. Like the problem just went away somehow and disappeared? I think we try too dam hard at certain times over certain things. its what makes us humans of which all of us come complete with built in mistakes lurking close by.. The only difference I see with myself. is somehow I don't have to try anywhere near as hard as I once did to make those changes? Perhaps gained confidence or some modest degree of success. Anyway i'm glad to have gotten by this writers block I had really bad. Thus it explains all the Typos I have when in the chat room.lol
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Yes, I'm exactly the same.. You can't mess with YOUR meaning .. so it could mean, what you'd want to mean.. to someone else. It doesn't work for me...I'm not smart enough, and confident and heck i don't even know what I am doing. Not enough to find the common denominator. I think the great ones.. can do that..I can't. They know it before they do it. My palate has too many colors.. My vision is too surreal...I consider myself lucky if i can find the right match for me.. and and even more lucky..... if I happen to be that blind squirrel who finds the acorn.
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Yes the tweaking... I shake my ass a little bit... and then let it go. That's the difficulting I give up on.. Too much ass and not enough twerking...Perfection has never been style.. And I tend leave things unfinished. I always thought it's a character flaw not to go the extra mile.. But here's the deal.. every time I have tried it.. I mess it up.. I get too concerned with the perfection.. and I lose my feel for the poem. I'm not buried into what I write..It's importance to me, is because it is fleeting. Like love...Something not to live.. but to remember. I never read poetry or wrote it before. I was 55 yrs old In school i had to memorize a poem.. I hated it. It was William Wordsworth.. the Daffodils. For a teenager that's was painful. But through my life the last Stanza stayed with me..and I have been in search of "Daffodils" When oft and on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood They flash upon my inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude.
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Your poems are beautiful. Interestingly, William Wordsworth 'daffodils' was the inspiration behind my installations (art) project some years ago. Â We had to make a functional chair. Â Not being the most practical of people, I shaped one out of chicken wire tightly stuffed with newspaper, sat on it for body shape/support then spray painted blue for sky and plaster of paris for solid clouds - 'I wandered lonely as a cloud' was born as it hung suspended from the steel rafters, accompanied by Wordsworth's uplifting poem by way of introduction. Just thinking about dreamily drifting by on a cloud past 'a host, of golden daffodils; beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze' was so uplifting. It's my favorite saying..It's defines my poetry.. Almost every poems I have ever written.. could begin with that line.. then i proceed to describe each and everyone..of the "10,000 saw I at a glance ....tossing their heads in spritely dance".. How within the dance of the multitudes..purpose creates it singularity. And I end it.... in the bliss of my solitude.. I have searched for the credit to be given to a single daffodil..I have yet to find it I question my own creativity..As I have plagiarized Williams Wordsworth's melody.. with my own words. You can see it...in the poems above..I do not know any other way.
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Sands of Time I'm an old man now got sand in my shoe I can't bend over I can't undo. And that, which seemed to matter On sands of time, I walked upon Has left between my heal and soul An irritation..when all is gone? The gray had taken the color From the autumn of my life The wrinkles of a cold winter Turned life to black and white. It's clear, that beyond time In the sands. and my reflection A worn face looks back at me Revealing a perfect imperfection I'm just an Old Man now Who's got sand in his shoe Finding comfort, in it now What's meant to be, I can't undo.
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Bridges If stars and moonbeams could enthrall I'd gather them up, one and all And build a bridge across the sea to light a way, for you and me Oh, to build such a glorious span to shorten the distance, if I can Yet... how to pluck them from the sky To create a bridge for you and I Each day, to pluck a moonbeam and star. To gather them all, all that there are Using magic from heart to mind Each star and moonbeam of every kind And a glorious bridge could be made of stars and moonbeams, Magic given An eternal light that can never fade O'er bridges, heart driven
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